


It's Beginning to Smell A Lot Like Christmas

by FawkesyLady (Tarma), Q_Drew



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Challenge Response, Christmas, Co-workers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarma/pseuds/FawkesyLady, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Q_Drew/pseuds/Q_Drew
Summary: Professor Granger has decided that This Is The Year that Severus Snapefinallywill have a Happy Christmas.Written for the 2019 Harry Potter FanFiction Collective's Holiday Fic Fest.Prompt: Pine.Updated: We won! :) Best overall... thanks y'all!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 85
Kudos: 311
Collections: HPFC: Holiday Fic Fest 2019, Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. Chapter One.

  
  


The faculty lounge of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was toasty warm, a stark contrast to the sky outside, already pitch black as was typical for December in Scotland even though it was only just past five. A golden glow cast by the ornately carved marble hearth, held back the shadows with a roaring fire. It was large enough to accommodate a tall wizard who insisted on floo-travelling in the completely upright position. Hermione mused that it could probably handle two or even three people at once, and doubtlessly had been used for the very purposes for hundreds of years.

The founders themselves may have sat together as the faculty did tonight, managing the school in this very room hundreds of years ago. To Hermione, the weight of such history was simultaneously discomfiting and inspiring. A second glass of mulled wine cradled in her hands kept her pleasantly relaxed. She was comfortable in this august company, no longer feeling the need to react to every point. Tenure did that to a witch. Even so, she yearned to leave her mark on the school. To make a difference. 

The Headmistress’ voice shifted away from a monotonous monologue dedicated to the mundanity of everyday management of the school. “The last item I’d like to discuss with you is a call for service. Professor Granger, you have the floor.” 

Minerva’s eyes of glacial blue pulled Hermione back to the moment. Her heart skipped a beat much like it might have if she were late for class and eleven years old. 

Sitting up straighter, Hermione put down her mug and pointed her wand at the frame above the hearth, conjuring her visual aid for her presentation. Thus prepared, she began. “As you all know, I’ve been very concerned about the need for a better system to help our Muggleborn students get ready for, and matriculate into a magical institution. You all recall how badly things went for Betsy Norwood?” 

The unfortunate girl had arrived at school completely unprepared, without even a robe or wand. Investigation revealed that she’d been abandoned by her family at King’s Cross. It could have been avoided entirely if the family had been educated properly, and if this failed, provide a better safety net to protect these innocent children. 

Muttered agreement from her colleagues encouraged her to continue, so Hermione pressed onward to the next point. “We need to raise funds to fill a new position on staff, a full-time teacher who will spend all of their time seeking out these muggleborn students and their families, and help them get the resources they need. Schools in the United States call these teachers guidance counsellors. Now, the Board of Governors have agreed that there is an obvious need, but have declined to commit sufficient funds.” 

In fact, the Board hadn’t lowered themselves to reject the proposal on Principle, blaming the strain of an already tight budget. She’d managed to get in writing that they agreed with the idea in the most abstract, non-committal manner possible. As far as Hermione was concerned, she’d won, for she’d never let a paucity of Galleons get in her way. 

A snort drew her attention to the figure closest to the door, well away from the fire. Tall, lean, and witty, Severus Snape was in his essentials the same wizard who’d dissected her ego into tiny evenly sized matchsticks of insecurity as a student. From a vantage changed by time and a much more even footing, his acerbic humour paired with his dark, perceptive eyes were utterly  _ compelling _ . 

She’d let silence fill the space too long. As he had every other time she’d given him an opening, Snape showed no mercy. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Severus let a feral smile slip across his face. “Pray tell, Granger, what ludicrous plan have you conjured up for fundraising this time?” After a beat, he asked, “Are we to knit?”

The cheeky titters from the side of the table undoubtedly came from Rolanda and Pomona, which he ignored. His glittering eyes were firmly fixed upon Granger’s face, which had blossomed into a delightful shade of scarlet. Severus couldn’t help himself, she made it far too easy to get a rise out of her. Shooting a barb or two, especially when Granger was on her sanctimonious Gryffindor high horse, was one of his most satisfying pastimes.

“Knitting?” a no-nonsense voice asked from the seat beside the red-faced Arithmancy Professor. 

“A joke,” Granger gritted through her teeth. She shook her head, her curls flaring out into the space around her, and faced her American seatmate. “Referencing a folly from my schooldays.”

Severus’ gaze slid to the grey-haired older woman, a good two decades older than the Headmistress herself. It was quite a coup for Minerva to snag her as this year’s visiting Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. The legend of the position’s curse persisted, and the Board had given up trying to permanently fill the vacancy long ago. Tina’s expectations for her students were particularly brutal, and her methodology blunt and refreshingly straightforward. In spite of her rough American manners (which bordered on outright arrogance), he couldn’t help but admire her. 

“Not so long ago for you, pet.” Tina turned slowly, catching everyone’s eyes at the table as she said, “ At Ilvermony we’d never make light of the plight of children, or the lack of funds for such a necessary solution.” 

Severus felt the sting of embarrassment when her gaze captured his own and held it. He briefly wondered how much innate mind-magic she possessed if her sister’s renowned skills had been any indication. Queenie Goldstein, a national treasure, was born with a rare talent, and her skills remained unrivalled to this day. 

Buoyed by the support, Granger smiled widely as if  she was a Kneazle that got the cream. “I am pleased to say that you won’t be required to knit, Professor Snape.” Granger’s eyes snapped back to his in silent challenge. 

Severus leaned back into his seat, crossed his arms, and raised one eyebrow for she had won her point. As she worked herself into a ramble, he turned his attention inward, for he already knew this project, whatever it was would be maddening, unpleasant, and ultimately unavoidable. Fundraising in its essentials was a bloodsport not suitable for serious educators. Add a Gryffindor tactician at the forefront of the advancing line, and one would really need to don a suit of armour to protect oneself from the battle ahead. Severus spared a glance at the witch as she gestured enthusiastically with her hands.

As a probationary Professor, Hermione Granger had blown into the Staff Room with the power of an Anemoi for her very first meeting. Indefatigable and acquiescent, she commanded her space and was desperate for approval. In short, she had been irritating to the highest degree. He was just now beginning to forget about the Longest Staff Meeting That Ever Was that had occurred during her first three months. Her list of New Business had been as long as her Potions O.W.L. and just as tedious and rote. He had briefly considered jinxing Minerva’s bladder to move things along but was saved from following through by Filius’ raucous snoring. 

Unquestionably in the intervening years, Granger honed her skills and now tortured him in ways that looked purely innocent on the surface, leaving her above reproach.

Of course, she had matured and now was less likely to publicly share her opinion on every point. When she did so, her contributions were carefully crafted and  _ intriguing _ . Severus found himself inexplicably anticipating their scholarly conversations over meals. When Granger wasn’t so bloody focused on impressing everyone, her innovative theories were a welcome addition to his own. 

When they entered a heated debate, he relished the fiery spark that lit up her eyes. This danger thrilled him viscerally. 

It wasn’t lost on him that they were two of the youngest teachers on staff at Hogwarts. He wasn’t the only one who struggled to separate the adult witch from their memories of her as a student. He reflected that it didn’t hurt that Granger filled out her womanly shape in ways Severus was just now allowing himself to appreciate. And that hair… he wanted to snag an amber curl around his pale finger. This temptation tortured him on the regular when she frequently rudely encroached upon his space at the High Table.

Minerva’s bright voice interrupted his ruminations, like the sudden appearance of a manned lighthouse in a foggy bay, “What a splendid idea, Hermione. My thanks to Tina for proving to be such a valuable resource of inspiration as well.” Minerva bowed towards the older woman. “Let’s take it to a vote. All in favour?”

A chorus of ‘Ayes’ rang around the space. Severus added his indifferent assent.

Granger clapped her hands together in pleasure, her eyes glowing with gratitude. “Oh, this will be wonderful! I’ll write to Hagrid, he’ll be able to supply us with plenty of spruces.”

_ Spruces?  _ Immediately, Severus realised that he should have been paying closer attention. 

He peeked at  Aurora Sinistra’s neatly-written  notes beside him. Severus’ eyes widened when he discovered what Granger proposed: a Festival of Trees. Apparently, it was an American tradition of decorating pine trees in themes and people could purchase them, with the proceeds donated to a worthy cause. Such as funding a Muggleborn Liaison. 

Oh, he didn’t like this one bit. Knitting was a viable option after all. Didn’t Dumbledore enjoy pattern work? 

It was too late to take back his assent, he had already given it. There was nothing he could have said to talk this back, the worth of her cause was unassailable. Minerva dismissed everyone, putting the discussion to bed with a finality that left no room for argument. 

_ Fuck me. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hermione was elated as she surveyed the circle of people who she considered friends, nay family. She had a Quest, and allies that she knew she could count upon, and it was delightful to see her enthusiasm reflected back to her. A smile from Poppy. A nod from Tina. A hand on her shoulder in silent support from Hooch. 

She shouldn’t have been disappointed or even surprised by Professor Snape’s disinterest. Her mood deflated a fraction as she studied the knot of misanthropic contradiction wrapped in industrial gauge wool protective robes. Tension weighed his shoulders down as he hunched to surreptitiously read  Sinistra’s notes. Hermione’s heart sunk a little further when he let slip a fleeting expression of surprise, subtle as it was - a widening of his eyes, a stillness.

The Astronomy Professor stood and pocketed her notebook, leaving Snape to stare at the empty spot. When he did move, the abruptness made Hermione gasp. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? 

A pointed glare told her otherwise. Snape held her gaze long enough that something vital in her chest began to wobble in giddy consternation. 

Before she could think of anything to say, he spun neatly on his heel and stalked out of the room in a black cloud of floating robes. 

When storm clouds leave the sky should brighten, but to her, the room was that much darker in his wake. How did Snape do that? 

The Headmistress spoke from her elbow. “I wouldn’t worry, dear. He hates Christmas. As sure as the nights are long, you can depend on Severus to be particularly miserable.” 

A glint off of McGonagall’s thistle brooch stirred an idea deep in Hermione’s brain, just a tiny spark of inspiration. Something she’d read long ago in a Potions Journal. 

Perhaps she might be able to change things for the dour man. Yule, Christmas, or Chanukah; all agreed that it wasn’t right to let anyone suffer. Even the darkest corners of humanity should feel the warmth of happiness and renewal, for hope shone on all in the longest and darkest time of the year. 

Holding onto that spark, Hermione answered, “Thanks, Minerva. I have some ideas I want to explore.” She’d have to go to the library tonight. 

Chuckling, the Headmistress shooed Hermione away. “I have no doubt. Off with you. You’ve your hands quite full.” 

Hermione missed the twinkle in Minerva’s eye as she bent to place a kiss onto the soft, powdery cheek of her favourite teacher. 

Minerva murmured to her retreating back, “Good luck, lass.” 


	2. Chapter Two.

Later that night, Hermione was ensconced in her favourite nook in the library, a curved alcove dwarfed by three large glass panelled windows. It was her preferred studying bolthole during her youth, and it was still comforting as an adult. The round elm table had that lived-in texture that breathed life into her the same way a crisp freshly printed book did. During the day, the sunlight that filtered through the windows was perfect in staving off eye strain. For now, floating  _ Lumos  _ orbs would have to do.

Teetering in front of her in a stack a metre high loomed years worth of bimonthly publications of the respectable  _ International Journal of Potion Making _ . The idea that popped into her head from the earlier conversation with Minerva was unwilling to let Hermione rest. She knew the answer was to be found in one of these editions. A potion… a mineral… a plant… something about that thistle brooch niggled at her. She knew that it would help her quandary in cheering up the Potions Master, but how it fit into her puzzle, she couldn’t recall. At least not yet. 

A shadow crept up from her left and fell over a Rebuttal to the Editor regarding the superior quality of granite pestles. Hermione jerked, and as she instinctively leaned away, she flicked her wand out of her sleeve. Quickly her gaze slid up the shadow’s length until it came to rest on the pale face of the very man who’d inspired her research.

“Oh,” she managed to breathe out into the otherwise empty room. 

With two long fingers Snape deftly moved aside her wand, away from his chest. “Do you mind, Granger?”

She felt her cheeks burn, the result of embarrassment and adrenaline, and hoped he wouldn’t notice it in the dark of the alcove. “I’d apologise,” Hermione said, attempting to keep her voice from wavering like her heartbeat. Her reaction was deeper than misplaced fear… a fluttering akin to a butterfly that appeared in her stomach whenever she was alone with this man. “But you did sneak up on me, Snape.” How was a retired spy still able to move so stealthily?

For a moment, he didn’t respond, the intensity of his stare growing in the silence. Finally, he spoke quietly, “I did not intend to startle you.” 

It was an apology, except it wasn’t. Hermione nodded in acknowledgement all the same and sheathed her wand. 

Snape asked, “What are you doing with all of these?” He gestured towards her hoard of journals that were distinctly not in her discipline.

Hermione had to quickly come up with a plausible answer; the man was a  Legilimens , he’d see right through a bald-faced lie. “Research for… Tina.”

“Is it something I could help you with? To expedite your search?” The offer surprised her and Hermione wished she could take him up on his rare congeniality.

“Oh no, I don’t want to bother you with this.” She closed the journal in front of her, and in an effort to deflect his attention, she asked, “May I ask what you are doing here?”

After a sigh, Snape said, “Perhaps you could explain this.” With a flourish, he removed a rolled-up paper that was tucked under his arm. As the parchment slapped against the table, it opened and revealed itself to be  _ The Quibbler _ . Snape pointed to the article on the front page. 

Hermione dutifully skimmed the article even though she already knew what it would say. “It explains the Festival of Trees. The article is intended to persuade businesses and private citizens alike to sponsor or even decorate a tree.”

“Not that, Granger. The date.” His finger slid up to the folio line, and she found herself hypnotised by its path. “How is it possible that this was published today when you just presented the idea to us this very afternoon?”

While she hadn’t expected to be confronted, she felt a ripple of pleasure because it was Snape who had found her out. She looked up at him with what she intended to be an innocent expression and shrugged. “I know the publisher?”

“Bullshite, Granger.” He leaned in closer, and her heart began to race. “I think that you preemptively told Lovegood about this idea of yours. It is possible that she’d already heard of the idea from her mother-in-law, but that alone would not result in such a timely article. You had the gall to take it for granted that Minerva would be caught in your web. You made the assumption that your proposal would be passed uncontested.”

“A bit bold of me, was it?”

Something about his roguish smile thrilled her. “Cunning is more accurate.”

“Well, you’d know something about that, I expect.”

“Indeed.”

At that moment, the Master Mora clock rang in the library, announcing it to be eleven and broke the tension that was building between them. Snape straightened and slipped  _ The Quibbler _ off the table to tuck it back under his arm. With a slight bow, he murmured, “Good night, Granger.”

“Good night,” she said to his back as he retreated into the stacks.

_ What a strange conversation _ . There was something titillating in the way he had said “indeed” followed by the look he gave her immediately before the interruption from the clock. It bordered on  _ interest _ . 

Hermione picked up another journal and thumbed through it absentmindedly. A rush of recognition gripped her as she passed a magical photo featuring a flower swaying in an invisible wind. She hurriedly flipped back to the correct page. The picture was of a pale-blue thistle-like plant, with soft petals above a prickly stem. 

_ Mistle _ . She read on, the details of the plant coming back into sharp focus.  _ The fluffy seeds have a calming, misting effect. _ It was the perfect base for a magical aid for the man who unerringly became uptight at this time of year. Now she would just need to decide how best to utilise it: crushed, powdered, sliced…vaporous, liquid, solid... the possibilities were endless.

She would owl the apothecary before breakfast. No, she amended almost immediately as she spelled the journals to reshelve themselves. She’d send an owl before returning to her quarters. After all, the  one who arrives first has the best chance for success.

As she made haste to the owlery, it occurred to her how diverting it was that Snape both subscribed to and read  _ The Quibbler _ . 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was early on Saturday, and Severus decided to pass on his usual lazy weekend Breakfast Bitch Session and take a walk into Hogsmeade instead. The sky overhead was overcast, and without a time-piece, he would have been hard-pressed to guess if the sun had made it above the horizon. The air was bitingly crisp, just what he needed to get a handle on his thoughts. 

He’d not been able to get any rest for he was plagued with a general sense of unease. Something of the wicked variety careened towards him, but from what direction? Over the years he’d trusted his instincts, for they’d seldom led him astray. 

Granger’s scheme irritated him, to an irrational degree. She was set to fill the Castle with spruce trees like it was a bloody forest (and hadn’t she enough of those in her year of forced camping?). The purpose was to con poor wretches into parting with their discretionary funds in the name of her latest crusade for Justice. Whilst vexing, this plan wasn't concocted to author his specific doom, for he'd not spoken of it for over a decade. 

Had someone planted this idea on her as a way of making his holiday that much worse? Poisoning would have been kinder. 

Only a few understood just how ardently he loathed Christmas Trees. Particularly, he hated the live ones with a burning passion just shy of a raging forest fire. The trees were valuable parts of the ecosystem, but hordes of sheeples insisted on cutting them down - sacrificing them on the altar of tradition, planning to dispose of them once they’d dropped their needles all over the front parlour carpet. 

He knew he wasn’t alone. Artificial trees, particularly the obviously fake ones made him believe that somewhere out there, others loathed Christmas trees as much as he did. 

Severus Snape, given a dram of whiskey and a tolerant ear would wax poetic on just how much he hated Christmas altogether. It was a sickening, commercialised, and materialistic holiday, stolen and warped by money-grubbing Toffs; intent on indoctrinating generations of children into self-entitlement under the flimsy mask of shoddy Christian beliefs that were plastered over the Old Ways, a twisted recreation of what should be a time for spiritual renewal. 

For some reason people kept giving him presents. He never encouraged the foul habit. Instead of bringing him joy, these trifles burdened him with an unwanted obligation. This feeling he usually could assuage, as he seldom received a gift that could be considered personal. 

He hated Christmas decorating, specifically the chore of dealing with  _ fucking fairy lights _ . Could we use glamours or mage lights?  _ Noooo _ . Nothing was too good for our students and we had to have  _ genuine  _ fairies. The little bastards were inexplicably attracted to him. Last year he’d been forced to wear a bag of repellent herbs with him to bed, for even after the festivities were over the insects had attempted to become permanent features in his room, nesting in the canopy of his bed. They made such a mess! He suppressed a shudder at the memory of fairy droppings he’d found in his sheets. 

Christmas music was passingly tolerable. He might even go as far as to say he liked the Sacred carols. Secular Christmas songs infuriated him, for so many insisted that one’s quality of life was entirely dependent on having a romantic partner to achieve true happiness, which was a load of bullshite. He had a theory that these ditties were crafted to subtly manipulate the populace with messages like “spend all your money to make someone who is conditioned to be so terribly superficial happy for about seventeen seconds. The idiots who fell for it would never be able to pay off the debt, and the media warned that to do otherwise was to guarantee a bleak future where you’d die alone. Charles Dickens was a devious bastard, but Severus was too smart to let a man who had been wormfood for over one-hundred years manipulate him. 

There were so many reasons to dislike this time of year. Maybe someday he’d write a book. 

Forcing out his breath, visible like smoke in the chilly air, Severus turned his mind to the more pleasant occupation of organising his own personal yearly tradition of brewing. Potions could cure the common cold and could bend perception to suit his whims. He had yet to perfect a formula that could stave off the existential and physical suffering that others mistook for his personal brand of Holiday Dysphoria. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You mean to tell me, that even though I have placed a standing purchase order for  _ Cirsium Caligo _ every year, for some reason, this  _ particular year _ you have failed to stock even a minimal quantity of this essential component?” 

Saul, who was usually reliable, flippered his pudgy hands in distress. He always reminded Severus of one of those fat sea cows, and this did little to lessen such a likeness. “I apologise, Professor Snape. You are one of my most valued customers, and I already have contacted my suppliers.” He looked away, and Severus noted the bob of his throat as he swallowed before continuing in a lower tone, akin to that used by Healers to give bad news. “There was a catastrophic storm, you see. If I had known, I wouldn’t have sold the last of my stock earlier this week.” 

Severus closed his eyes and willed his emotions to still before he caused a storm of his own. Catastrophic was a very apt description. Mistle was the key ingredient to his potion. Without it, he couldn’t brew it, and there were no alternatives. Centering himself, he opened his eyes, and found to his satisfaction that Saul was cowering. “None of the field herbalists have any to spare?” 

Eager to offer proof of his diligence, Saul nodded vigorously. “It was that terrible wind storm. I don’t know if you read about it in the paper, but it really made a mess of the slopes in the Cairngorms. And as you know…” 

Holding up a hand to stay the onslaught of information he in fact already knew, Severus said, “The species is found nowhere else in the world, and more won’t be available until next year. It cannot be cultivated because it needs exposure to the wind elementals native to the Highlands.” Presently his brain was scouring his mental black book of contacts that he maintained for the rarer and sometimes more controversial components necessary to his personal projects. 

“I don’t suppose that there’s any left in the school’s stores?” Saul’s tone suggested that he already knew full well that there was no earthly reason to stock the fluffy magical weeds. They had no place in a standard curriculum. 

Lifting an eyebrow in wry amusement, Severus answered, “No, don’t be ridiculous. And I used up all I’d purchased last year. I need that Mistle, Saul. Will you keep trying?” 

After a beat of hesitation, Saul nodded. “I know a few private potioneers that I will ask, but you know English Wizards, Snape! They’d rather collect fancy continental style ingredients over the magical weeds of the Scottish Highlands.” 

Severus must have let some of his disappointment show, for the portly man reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “You are one of my best customers, and your students are my customers of the future. For you, of course I’ll do my utmost best.” 

A bell chimed, heralding the entrance of another customer, and gave Severus an opening to leave. “I look forward to hearing from you, Saul.” A scent wafted in, proceeding a silhouetted figure, a familiar and not altogether unpleasant odour, warm with the smoky tones of amber, or perhaps myrrh? He melted away, using the aisle as cover and took the long way around to the exit. 

As he stepped out onto the street, he heard Saul’s customary greeting. “Why if it isn’t Professor Granger. I hope there wasn’t a problem with your order? It cost me dearly for I’ve not been able to replace my stock.” 

“Oh no, Mr Jigger. It was just perfect for the perfume I have in mind. I needed more, but luckily the Apothecary in Edinburgh had some on hand. That’s not what I wanted to discuss. Did you see the article about Hogwarts’ Festival of Trees? I was wondering if you’d like to sponsor a tree.” 

Severus shook his head and slipped out onto the street, making a clean getaway before the curly-headed witch found some new and innovative way to irritate him. 


	3. Chapter Three.

Severus woke up Monday morning with a Festering Sense of Hopelessness. Indeed, ‘waking up’ could easily be considered an exaggeration as he did very little actual sleeping the night before. No one had any Mistle to spare. The Apothecary in Edinburgh sent a regretful owl explaining they had sold the last of their stock that week. The posologist at St Mungo’s also wrote a note of remorse. Hell, Severus was so desperate he had even used the Muggle Studies Professor’s mobile to call a Muggle chemist. 

What was he to do? Did he dare ask for a sabbatical to hike the Cairngorms himself? Surely at least one plant survived the wind? Failing that, he might send a House Elf? He was once Headmaster, perhaps he still held enough clout with the Elf Matron…

Ninety minutes later, Severus was a dark rippling ink stain stalking up the stairs from the kitchen. Elzee vehemently refused to grant him one Elf’s aid for even one single afternoon, citing that there was simply none to spare this time of the year. Did no one understand how important this was? 

Severus always suffered from particularly bad health around this time of the year. His homebrewed potion, with a large quantity of Mistle as its base, was the only thing that made life bearable. Otherwise… well, it’s been years since he had gone without it, how would his aged body take to the miserable weather and everything it came with now? 

Entering the Front Hall from the stairwell, he came upon a dreadful sight. A wide, perky spruce was in the corner. It was wrapped in garish yellow tinsel and decorated with dozens of badger baubles, all wearing different winter accessories monogrammed with an ‘H’. The brazen tree trembled joyfully, resisting the force of his cavilling glare. 

As Severus passed the tree on the way into the Great Hall, an earnest badger bauble squeakily rendered “Deck the Halls.” He had to refrain from blasting the entire thing to smithereens right then and there. In addition to the proximity of the endearing, over-eager Hufflepuffs--witnesses--at their table, Sprout would surely bury him in the Mandrakes’ greenhouse should such a nefarious deed become public knowledge. 

His head immediately began to feel foggy, and there was an itch in his nose that meant nothing good. With a great amount of concentrated effort Severus stifled a sneeze that threatened to erupt, for anything coming from his nose would not be fit for polite company. As the tickle subsided, he grimaced in grim appreciation of his own bad luck, because it was starting early this year. This day was just getting better and better.

Once he sat at his customary place at the table, a mucky looking bowl of oatmeal popped into existence where he’d expected his usual full English.

“Wow,” said a cheerful voice beside him. “What did you do to earn that?”

His mood already soured beyond repair, Severus turned his glare on Granger and was about to console himself by verbally eviscerating her when an owl dropped the  _ Daily Prophet  _ into his Morning Sludge, splattering globules of mush over his formerly clean black robes. 

Severus mentally theorized that he had died in his sleep overnight and was in Hell.

To Granger’s credit she sat as stock-still as a true Gryffindor faced with an irritable lion, before slowly reaching over to remove the paper from his bowl. “Dratted press,” she muttered.

“It’s no matter,” Severus said evenly, his voice tight. “I have apparently pissed off Gaia herself.”

“Let’s just,” Hermione murmured as she cleansed his newspaper with a flick of her wand. How she always treated him with kindness when he failed to return it was ever a source of wonderment for him. She folded it, but hesitated before handing it back to him. Her eyes rapidly scanned an article on the back page. 

Severus looked down to discover it was an editorial, bemoaning the Mistle shortage and highlighting the need for conservation of native Scottish magical species - both plant and animal. The reminder sent Severus deeper down into the dark hole of Christmas Uncheer. He needed to be alone with his misery. 

“Keep it, Granger,” he said as he stood, his chair screeching against the floor in his haste. “I have other things to tend to.” Severus gestured down his front, and Granger’s eyes followed the sweep of his hand. 

He swirled away, leaving behind a trail of gloom and discontent.

  
  


* * *

It was history, repeating itself. 

Last year and every year before Severus Snape became unbearable in December. Hermione had witnessed it herself, and it seemed like it was worse this year. It was only the second week of December and he already was incapable of tolerating spilled oatmeal! She’d read in one of her Mum’s health periodicals about seasonal affective disorder, but he appeared to recover completely by New Year’s Day and that didn’t fit.

This was going to be the year that Snape forgot his misery if it was the last thing she ever did. She knew she could juggle the Tree Project along with this and her duties, but it would be tight. She’d lunched with Luna and if things continued to progress apace with sponsors pouring in for the trees, maybe she could spare Hermione some of her time for this side project. 

“Hermione!” Hagrid’s heavy hand nearly made her slip out of her chair with a friendly pat. 

Leaping up with a broad smile, Hermione greeted her old friend with a hug, breathing in the strong scent of the forest and resins that stuck to his coat along with woodsmoke. No one hugged like Hagrid. It was like getting engulfed by a well-worn teddy bear. Giddy with delight, she pulled back and bounced on her toes. “Have you brought the samples with you?” 

As she glanced around the hall, the half-giant answered, “Of course, of course. I just have them tucked into the corner over there. I didn’t know if this was to be a surprise, so I had them camouflaged.” 

The clean smell of evergreens became stronger as he led her over to the spot. After getting her permission with a lift of his greying bushy eyebrows, he pulled away a magical curtain that had maintained the illusion of empty wall space. 

Five different trees stood like Aurors on honour guard, each very different in appearance. Immediately, Hermione discounted the wide-based tree that Hagrid identified as a Scots Pine. It would take up too much room. After he fielded several of her pointed questions, Hermione was impressed at the former Groundskeeper’s breadth and depth of knowledge about the natural world. 

Rubbing the rich, dark green needles of the Serbian Spruce that had drawn her eye from the beginning, Hermione shook her head in regret. “I really like this one.” She tugged on the graceful branch, admiring how comparatively soft it was to touch. “It is a pity that it won’t take the weight of heavy ornaments.” 

A voice at her elbow tutted. “Oh, Hermione. Have you already forgotten everything I’ve taught you?” 

She nearly jumped out of her skin and whirled to fix Professor Flitwick with a frown. “You shouldn’t sneak up on a witch, Filius.” 

Both Hagrid and Flitwick exchanged looks of amusement as she smacked her own forehead, for the knut just fell into place. 

“Of course! The ornaments could be fixed with lightweight charms.” She let the branch slip from her fingers and held them up to her nose to admire the faint citrus notes left behind by the evergreen’s natural resins. She deflated as she meditated on the sheer number of ornaments that would need to be charmed. “I don’t think I have enough time to do that for thousands of baubles.” 

Setting his hands on his hips, Flitwick said, “Well, Professor Granger. What am I, dessicated doxy droppings!?” 

Hermione opened her mouth, and only just stayed the apology that was set to trip off of her tongue. Taking a moment, she saw a spark of mischief in his eyes and instead said, “Thank you for volunteering to take over this part of the project. That’s such a load off my mind! I know how busy you are with final rehearsals for the choir, but I’m sure you can enlist some eager students to help. When do you think would be a reasonable deadline to receive the ornaments for enchantment?” 

The diminutive Professor’s mouth dropped open, letting a few nonsensical phrases pass for prevarication before settling on, “As soon as possible, but I’d say a week before the grand event at the very minimum.” 

Reaching out to shake his unresisting hand, Hermione beamed down at Flitwick, ignoring the chortling that was coming from Hagrid. He’d already been roped in, although she’d done him the courtesy of directly asking for his help. “I imagine Luna will be able to spare some time as she’s deeply involved in the organizational end of things for the Festival. This will let her have a bit of fun too!” 

In response, Flitwick firmed his grip and shook hands with greater enthusiasm before quickly taking his leave. It had the air of a tactical retreat. 

“You’ll be wanting the Serbians, then?” Hagrid brought her back to the question at hand.

Nodding assent, Hermione conjured her clipboard where she kept her notes for the project. “If you think you can get them in quantity. When do you need final numbers? I’ll probably order a few extra in case of disasters, we can always use the overage to decorate the castle.” 

After a few minutes of chat and inviting Hagrid to a spot of tea with her at the High Table, Hermione headed back to her room, and more specifically, her private lab. 

As she ascended the staircase, a loud sneeze echoed from the dungeons below, snapping against everyone’s eardrums with a pressure more often experienced with a Muggle fighter jet breaking the sound barrier. Shaking her head, she returned her thoughts to this quandary.  _ How in the name of Magic was she ever to help Severus Snape actually enjoy Christmas _ ?

* * *

It was after a long, difficult brainstorming session that Hermione finally retired for dinner. She’d started working on the base for her creation, hoping to experiment with it before she settled on the final vehicle for delivery. The potion crafting itself in this case was relatively simple compared to the problem of persuading Snape to accept her offering. 

There was precious little the private wizard let slip about himself. She knew he had a taste for the finer things, but abhorred the appearance of pretension. His clothes spoke volumes towards this, for they were tailored and enchanted by the very best, but the material itself was modest black wool, practical down to the ground. The cut was form-fitting, while his outer teaching robes were built for the theatrical aspect of his work. 

She used her nearly perfect memory to think over his meal choices over the years. He never had dessert but did enjoy cheese. He rarely drank, and never at the High Table while in the public eye. His tea was from his own private stock, and she resolved to have a House Elf swipe a measure of it for her perusal. 

His choices for pleasure reading over the years were as eclectic as her own. He kept to a limited circle of society, but it would be a cold day in hell before she asked Draco Malfoy for his advice. 

The object of her study was already at the High Table, looking worse for wear. Since this morning he’d developed dark circles under his eyes, and his voice was altered, higher pitched and more nasal. 

Hermione noticed that he’d chosen a seat at the end of the table rather than his usual place. Was he getting ill? Curious, she shifted her attention to Madam Pomfrey who appeared unconcerned, even when Snape broke into a chain of sneezes that led up to an impressive demonstration of the wizard blowing his nose, the sound of which rivaled the mating call of an Erumpent in heat. 

He must have noticed her attention, because as he tucked his black handkerchief back into his pocket, he turned to glare at Hermione where she sat in her usual place. Heat rose into her ears as he continued to stare, and she had been certain that he was about to dress her down for some offence when he stood up and left the table and his largely uneaten meal without a single word. 

In some ways, silent treatment was worse from Snape than any of his insults, for she’d no idea of what he was thinking. She was left with her fertile imagination to wonder. 


	4. Chapter Four.

“Poppy, you must have something here,” Severus moaned as he rummaged around in her medicinal cabinet. 

“Severus,” the Matron said kindly as she rested a hand on his shoulder. “You provide me with the majority of my stores. You know the exact state of my stock.”

“Yes, but -” he sneezed several times, the volume increasing with each successive sternutation.

A pathetic whine crooned through the air originating from the sickbed of a first year. 

“Oh for Hipworth’s Sake, Severus. You woke up Wells. On top of a nasty case of Bog Sickness, he’s afraid of the dark, poor thing.” Poppy Pomfrey muttered as she turned away from the Potions Master to fret over an actual patient.

_ Hipworth… ah yes! _ Pepperup Potion wouldn’t alleviate all his symptoms but maybe if he could get this damnable sneezing under control... Severus began to swipe the vials into his arms to carry away. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, young man,” Poppy scolded as she peeked her head out of the nearby curtain. “You may take only one.”

Sniffling, Severus replaced the phials, furtively tucking an extra one into his pocket.

“I said  _ one _ .” 

“I am an adult, Poppy, and I am unwell. I will restock your supplies later,” he said in what he hoped was a clipped tone. It was hard to hear even his own voice with clogged ears.

“Severus Tobias Snape,” she barked, leaving no room for argument.

With a shuddering sigh, he replaced the extra vial back into its proper place next to the others. “Poppy, I suggest that you inform Minerva that I require coverage for my classes. I cannot function like this, and my ailment will only increase classroom disasters.” As if to emphasise his point, he sneezed again.

“Severus,” Poppy said as she left Wells’ bedside. “You’re absolutely fine. You have a head cold. Or perhaps you simply have --”

Severus sneezed again. This one echoed around the chamber, causing a painting to clatter to the floor. Wells screamed. The painted sleeping nymphs screamed. It looked like Poppy wanted to shout as well but, instead, she said through gritted teeth, “Severus, you need to leave. You are a nuisance of the worst kind. Have a warm cup of tea. Take the Pepperup. Do go back to bed and actually sleep. I assure you, you are not on your deathbed.”

He might not be dying, but he was about as functional as a ten-day-old corpse and with each passing hour was becoming just as messy.

Breathless, a dishevelled Professor Granger looked about with her wand at the ready, “What happened? Is everyone alright? I heard screaming.” 

_ For fuck’s sake.  _

Professor Granger, whose quarters were nearby, wore little more than a grey dressing gown and fuzzy slippers. Her hair was wilder than usual, its chestnut curls twisted about her head like some kind of nest, or perhaps a crown. Severus tried to glare at her, but was distracted by the glimpse of a green satin hem peeking out from under her robe. He was just getting an eyeful of silk-restrained bosom when he felt yet another sneeze coming on. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Poppy scolded, waving her wand at his face. His twisted pre-sneeze face suddenly felt very stiff. “This immobilisation is only going to last about twenty seconds. So, out you go! Hermione, dear. I’m fine but if you don’t mind, Severus could use an escort down to his chambers--” the Mediwitch raised her voice, “ _ far away  _ from here.” 

The Matron rushed the pair out into the corridor and managed to click the door shut behind them just as Severus’ ensorceled face suddenly resumed its suspended action. 

  
  


* * *

“Sanctimonious, high-handed old harridan!” The Potions Professor wasn’t making much of an effort to keep his thoughts to himself, only pausing to wipe his nose-gone faucet with that fascinating black handkerchief Hermione had noticed many times over the past few days. “Hypocritical oath is more like…” Snape looked over his shoulder and came to an abrupt halt. 

Hermione had been following a few paces behind, silently admiring the breadth and depth of the man’s vocabulary. He was always worth listening to, and if you took a moment to get past the veneer of nastiness that he cloaked himself with habitually, he was terribly entertaining. 

Still, she had no wish to push him into an outright attack on her person, and as such, she stopped and offered him what she fancied was a mild, not-nervous-at-all, go-on-and-ignore-me, smile. 

One heavy brow winged up as he regarded her for a silent moment. It was Snape tactic number eight for making people go away. It would have been more effective if he hadn’t broken to spin away and sneeze messily. 

She took a step back, not wishing to catch whatever plague the wizard had managed to acquire. Hermione maintained her own mask of platitude which was fortunate for he stole another glance at her whilst mopping up his nose. His brow was lined with stress, furrowing as deeply as it had immediately after the war, the effect highlighted by the dim light and his nearly luminescent pallor. 

“Well? What are you hanging about for? As Madam Pomfrey announced for any to hear, I am not dying and therefore, contrary to her instruction, no doubt crafted to get rid of you as well, I do not require an escort back to my quarters.” He must have caught her looking at the cloth in his hand, for it disappeared into his sleeve. He  _ was _ blushing, wasn’t he? 

Clearing her throat. “Have you tried a hot toddy? I find that a warmed infusion of equal parts honey, lemon, and whiskey do a world of good.” She gestured to her door, just behind them. He’d not stalked too far before he was halted by his illness. 

Both eyebrows lifted in surprise in response to her suggestion. A flicker of his eyes down to her bare legs made her painfully aware that he might have misinterpreted her suggestion in favour of a very forward invitation. Heat rose in a wave from her toes, running ahead of the track that Snape’s eyes travelled before he finally settled on meeting her gaze. By then her thoughts were derailed well away from hot toddies, and if her intuition was anything, his mind had been elsewhere as well. 

When she was about to stammer out something inane and guaranteed to make the situation infinitely worse, Snape murmured. “Your generosity, Granger, is laudable. Unfortunately, alcohol will not help me tonight.” He lowered one of his brows and was back to his sardonic self. “No matter what you add to sweeten it.” 

Licking her inexplicably dry lips, Hermione decided to offer another branch. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? I don’t mind taking on an extra patrol or two so you can rest. Truly you do seem quite ill.” 

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Snape stepped away. “That won’t be necessary. Good night, Granger.” 

“Good night, Professor.” Hermione winced internally. She’d never quite managed to stamp out her habitual deference of address, particularly to Snape. 

Rolling his eyes, he said, “Call me Severus. If you cannot bring yourself to it for all of your Gryffindor bravery and the years we’ve known one another, then just Snape will do. I’ve not been your Professor for some time.” 

“Right-o. Good night then, Severus.” 

Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to take him up on it, for he stood still for a few heartbeats, making her second guess herself. The moment was broken when another sneeze forced him to look away, and she focused on her breathing in a conscious effort to slow down her racing pulse. 

Rather than renew the leave-taking, he raised his free hand in a gesture that could have easily been dismissal as a farewell, disappearing into the shadows.

Having no illusion that she was going back to sleep immediately, Hermione headed back to her room. She’d been working on Project Jolly Up Snape and was set to brew out her third iteration on the morrow. The hardest part was going to be figuring out a way to deliver it with benign cunning and subtly. 

_ Potpourri _ ? Too obvious.  _ Candles _ ? Trite. _ Bath soap _ ? He’d probably take that as an insult.  _ Massage oil _ ? That was dangerous in an entirely different, and uncomfortably intriguing way. 

All of the fine hairs on her arms stood up straight, and she found herself shivering as she cast an  _ Incendio _ on the logs waiting on her own little hearth. 

As she pulled a blanket around her legs, she hoped that she hadn’t contracted Severus’ ailment. 


	5. Chapter Five.

The next day wasn’t any better for Severus. He woke up feeling like a Boneless Pile of Sick. When he dared to observe his deteriorating state in the mirror, it screeched at him in despair. Severus now had two eyes that looked like he had just returned from a three day fit of demoralisation rather than four hours of fitful sleep.

Would he be able to skip making an appearance at the High Table this morning? Honestly, the less the students saw of him in this state, the better. As he consulted the calendar, he realized with increasing horror that he had already used up his allotted Skive Off Breakfast Passes for the year. A floo-call to Minerva resulted in no sympathy, as she fixed him with That Look that told him he was out of luck. He intended to tell her that he could not be held responsible for the state of the House Point Hourglasses by the end of the day; but Severus was sabotaged by a sneeze of monumental proportions that simultaneously blew out the fire and ended the disagreement.

With no recourse, he dragged himself out of the comfort of his dungeons, only to be greeted by a grotesque tableau. In addition to the Hufflepuff tree, there was now also representation from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Dejected, he recalled a request from his Prefects to review designs for Slytherin’s contribution. He’d have to meet with them today. 

How was it possible that there was a tree from Flourish and Blotts already? Hundreds of tiny book baubles opened as Severus approached, their pages fanning out against the pine needles. Professor Granger’s initiatives moved frighteningly fast.

If moods were able to materialize physically, he was sure he would be sitting under a monsoon, and this cloud followed him to breakfast in the Great Hall. Just as they did in Southeast Asia, he could expect to suffer for weeks on end. Severus listlessly pushed around the bangers on his plate. Nothing smelled or tasted right. Everything was colourless.

Granger flounced into the hall a quarter to eight. “Good Morning, Severus. How are you feeling this fine morning?” she asked with a smile as she sat next to him.

“There’s nothing good about it, Granger.”

She tutted, “I recall we’re on a first-name basis now.”

The prospect of rolling his irritated eyes was too painful, so he turned and settled for a glower. “As you say,  _ Hermione _ ,” he drew out the syllables of her name.

For a moment, he thought that she had gone into a trance. Severus quirked an eyebrow and that seemed to break Granger of her unnerving stare. “You look like death, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Always free with the compliments, aren’t you?”

“Have you tried --” Hermione stopped at his level glare. “Right. Potions master. I could distract you with an update on the Festival?”

“Would you actually have an entire meal in silence if I asked?”

“Well, seeing as you are feeble and infirm,” she smirked at him. “I would do my level best.”

He wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or pleased, and given it would likely cause her real physical pain, he decided to let her have this one. “Your proposed remedy of distraction is not one I have yet tried.”

“Well --”

And Hermione was off, waxing poetically about the Festival at a sprinter’s pace. The timetable she hoped to keep to; ending with an open invitation to the public the day before Winter Break to come and view Hogwarts’ Festive Tree Nursery and purchase one of the little darlings to take home with them. How helpful everyone has been--Hagrid with procuring the perfect spruces, Lovegood leaning heavily on businesses, and the generosity and understanding of her compatriots towards this Good Cause.

As the time stretched and more students and staff entered, he appreciated the witch’s chatter. Granger was holding the pretence that he had enough facilities to hold a conversation with another human. Nobody bothered to interrupt her, and thusly she effectively hid Severus’ imitation of death warmed over. 

How did Hermione do that? It was sneaking up on him gradually, but in this moment he couldn’t help but notice that she treated him with a brand of kindness he didn’t deserve. She had elected to sit by him at the High Table so regularly now that Severus had begun to think of it as Her Seat and was put out when someone else sat there. Hermione switched patrols with him last minute if he asked, and she had never complained or demanded concessions like all of his other colleagues. 

Hermione was  _ nice,  _ and he’d be loathe to admit it outloud, but he  _ liked  _ it.

Granger grew so animated in her latest point that she touched his arm with her well-manicured hand, causing something to clench in Severus’ gut.  _ Are those bangers going to make a reappearance? I thought they might be off.  _ Perhaps it would really show Minerva if he were to make a mess all over the tablecloth.

He was pulled away from these thoughts when Granger stood and waved enthusiastically towards the front of the Great Hall. Severus’ eyes cut to the doors where an equally elated Luna Lovegood was jumping and waving back. Tina Scamander at the other end of the table also stood.

“I have to go, Severus. Thanks for your ear!” Hermione exclaimed over a shoulder as she gave Tina her arm.

About mid-way down the Slytherin table, she turned back. Eyes shining, cheeks pink, and smile bright, Hermione bounded back to his side, where she pulled out a vial and placed it near his elbow. With a wink, she was once again off like a shot.

She’d brought him another phial of Pepperup Potion. 

Uneasily, Severus realized that he didn’t have a mundane belly ache. It was an emotionally charged butterfly planning its escape. There was no denying it any longer. 

He really  _ liked  _ Hermione Granger. 

_ Bollocks. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


“So you’ve had donations for over fifty trees, nearly all are decorated perfectly…” 

Hermione interrupted Luna’s irritatingly logical recap of the situation, for contrary to what her friend said, everything most certainly was  _ not  _ going smoothly. “Did you see the tree from Slytherin house?” 

Lips curving up in a smile that looked very odd from Hermione’s vantage, Luna brightened. “Oh, yes. It is progressive, don’t you think?” 

Growling, Hermione pulled her head out of the blonde’s lap where she’d been enjoying a massage. “Progressive? Who is going to want a black tinsel tree with green glowing firefly snot...” 

“Mucus.” 

Luna’s reproachful tone sent Hermione’s eyes rolling in her head. “Fine. Mucus!” 

Failing to hide her amusement, Luna added, “The silver snakes as garlands are traditional. You have to admit that the crystal bells are a nice change to the lions, badgers, and eagles all fighting for aural dominance.” 

Letting out a slow breath, Hermione flopped back down into Luna’s lap. “Don’t tell Severus, but I secretly worship his ingenuity. He’s figured out a way to mute the noise whenever he’s nearby.” 

“Hm. Is that why you are following him about like a lost shadow?” 

Stunned, Hermione stared up at Luna who was giggling as though she’d made a very funny jest. 

“You aren’t being very subtle, Hermione. Why don’t you just ask him out for a coffee? It worked for me.” 

“I’m doing research, Luna!” Hermione belatedly recalled that they were not alone in the staff lounge. Hagrid was in conversation with the Headmistress just a few yards away. Lowering her voice, she added, “I’ve tried the scented pinecones, put them in a garland near his seat at the table, and he vanished them. I changed the soap in his classroom, and while the students who had detention that night were unnaturally jolly, it didn’t seem to have any effect on him.” 

Dragging her fingers gently through Hermione’s curls, Luna offered a suggestion, “Maybe you should go back to the tea idea. That worked on Pomona.” 

Wincing, Hermione tried not to recall the afternoon when she’d come upon Professor Sprout in the staff lounge, standing on the table and singing “Santa Baby” to Rolanda Hooch, who looked very much like Christmas had come early. “It worked too well.” 

“Christmas is nearly upon us. You’re running out of time.” Luna glanced across the way. 

Glumly, Hermione raised her hands to cover her face. “I know! And if anything, Snape is worse than ever. I just don’t understand it, Luna! I think there’s something wrong with him. Maybe I should go talk to Madam Pomfrey. Severus is sick and I don’t think it’s right that she keeps laughing him off.” 

The cushion underneath her dipped alarmingly, and Luna’s legs with it. 

Hagrid’s rough voice was nearby now, having just joined them on the large couch. “Well, ladies. I managed to find another dozen trees, but they’re all Blue Spruce. You’ve only to tell me where to set ‘em up.” 

“The last corridor that’s undecorated is the one leading down to Slytherin’s common room.” Hermione uncovered her face to look up at Hagrid. “We had to move those because someone had blasted them with a wind charm so powerful that it blew most of the needles off.” 

A deep laugh answered her. “That’d be Professor Snape, I warrant.” His smile fell. “He’s having a rotten time of it, what with the Mistle shortage.” 

Hermione sprung up and turned onto her knees, leaning across Luna to grasp at Hagrid’s sleeve in horror. “What? Why would Professor Snape need Mistle?” 

Beetle black eyes widened in consternation. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that.” 

Ignoring Luna’s quiet oof, Hermione climbed across her so that she could grasp Hagrid’s lapels in both hands, made more difficult as the already tall man leaned backwards in an attempt to fend her off. “No way, Hagrid. You are going to explain  _ right now _ .” 

“Well, you see, he’s always sick this time of year.” 

Gritting her teeth to stop herself from shouting, Hermione tugged at the half-giant’s collar. “Go. On.” 

Hagrid shrugged helplessly. “That’s all. He’ll get better after Christmas is over.” 

Luna broke in, saving Hermione from doing something she might regret. “What Hermione wants to know is why Severus is sick in the first place.”

“Yes, and what does my Mistle have to do with it!” She loosened her grip a fraction, having noticed that her knuckles had gone white.

A large hand covered Hermione’s and a toothy smile appeared from his beard. “I suppose I ought ter tell ye, seeing as you are so worried. Sev’rus is allergic to Christmas trees.” 

Hermione frowned, trying to digest this. “You mean pine trees?” 

“And spruce. And fir trees. And cypress, believe it. We tried all of them after I caught him hexing the big trees in the hall his first year teaching.” 

Not truly wrapping her mind around this new information, Hermione repeated slowly, “Severus is allergic to Christmas trees.” 

Nodding vigorously, Hagrid went on, babbling now that he’d let the secret slip. “Deathly allergic, poor soul. He’d managed to get it under control with a potion that he makes every year. It creates a sort of barrier of clean air around him. The Mistle disperses the whatsit and the thingy, so he says.” 

Luna pulled Hermione into a hug, which was easy as she was too stunned to put up any resistance. “Wow, Hermione. No wonder he’s been avoiding you.” 

The room wavered before her eyes. “I… I’ve messed it all up. I wanted to give him a happy Christmas, but all I’ve done is make certain that he’s even more miserable!” She clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her sob. 

Hagrid stood up, wringing his hands in consternation. “Well, I er. I ought ter get home to feed me dogs.” 

Sweetly, Luna answered, “Thank you, Hagrid. You’ve been very helpful.” 

“Right. Er... Bye, Hermione. See yer at the Festival.” 

Hermione was failing to control herself, and could only wave a desultory goodbye to Hagrid’s rapidly retreating form. 


	6. Chapter Six.

For the first time in  _ weeks _ Severus was looking forward to the hours ahead; it was, at long last, Festival Day. The dozens of trees in the Front Hall would soon be on their way to their Forever Homes, or at least until they’re pitched to the kerb in a month’s time with the other rubbish. 

Severus had survived far worse in his youth; he could certainly survive one more day of this--the encroachment of the pines, and their needles and sap.

As he shrugged on his outer robe his skin itched, indicating that hives were imminent. How he had managed to avoid them for so long was a small mercy, Severus rationalised. Things would be over tonight, and tomorrow the students will return home. He will be left in peace to recuperate. 

Maybe he’d take Hermione up on her offer to play his nursemaid. Severus’ fondness for her had only grown exponentially with her persistent attentiveness, which grew apace with his misery over the last week. She made him feel cared for, even if there was truly nothing for her to remedy his suffering without Mistle.

On his way out, he passed a small pile of gifts on his side table. He touched a light hand upon the one he’d dared to procure for Hermione. Severus hoped she liked it. He hadn’t much practice at this type of thing.

When Severus entered the Front Hall, the trees all ceased their tinkling immediately. He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief but knew better. He recalled a particularly embarrassing moment from the other night. He’d been attempting to eat a dignified dinner when he sneezed, causing a chunk of potato to fly out of his mouth. The entire school was made to notice when a first-year Hufflepuff yelled, “DID HE JUST BLOW HIS NOSE OFF?” 

He was saved from further introspection of his bruised ego by a cacophony of clacking that rose up from his right. If he didn’t know better, it was a stampeding bicorn approaching down the stairwell from the East Wing. As Severus turned to meet the onslaught, he discovered that Hagrid hadn’t let loose a hooved menace in the school, but rather Hermione in what looked to be in a tremendous hurry. Why was she still dressed in what she wore the preceding day? Hermione came to a stop in front of him, elation etched all over her face. He was about to demand an explanation when her grin dropped away, replaced with a pained grimace of concern.

“What are you doing out here?” Hermione said as she gestured to the space around them before taking hold of his elbow and moving them to a private alcove, steps away. “You shouldn’t --” she shook her head “--nevermind. I did it!”

He growled, “You did what, witch? Are you alright?” Hermione’s curls were in a state of rebellion, and his own worry grew when he noticed that her eyes were shaded with fatigue. Before he could comment, Severus was forced to turn away from her to sneeze into his handkerchief.

“This!” She gestured between the fabric and his offending nose. Hermione carefully extracted something from her pocket. It was a cloak pin. The varnished metal was twisted into a circular shape, with a long sharp needle bisecting it. At the end of the needle was a smooth blue swirling gemstone. A shimmering vapour rose from the piece cradled in the palm of her hand.  _ Mistle _ .

“Where did you get Mistle?” his tone was harsher than he’d intended, he’d been unable to control it in his surprise.

“I - I - uh,” Hermione stammered before spitting out, “I bought some at the beginning of the month. I read that --”

“You bought  _ some _ ,” Severus interrupted her, speaking slowly with each syllable weighted down with the dreadful revelation. “Saul in Hogsmeade?”

She nodded.

“The apothecary in Edinburgh as well?”

Hermione nodded again, paling. “He had only a modest supply, or so I understand.”

Severus had come to a critical crossroad. He could resent her for hoarding the entire British, if not the world’s supply of the one thing that gave him ease, and in so doing, push her away. It would be easy to follow that familiar path, for he’d tread it before. 

When Hermione looked up at him with such sweet concern, her warm brown eyes told him the entire story. She had purchased the Mistle, probably not realizing he had required it, specifically to craft him this gift. 

She was trembling, probably afraid of his rejection, of his anger. Severus didn’t want to be that man anymore. 

Hermione began to turn aside, shame reddening her face. Severus grabbed her wrist, stopping her from taking the cloak-pin,  _ his gift _ , away. She turned back to him, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“I think, perhaps,” he muttered, laying his fingers across hers and plucking the pin from her palm. “I owe you my thanks.” He pinned his robe closed, and the aroma of the soothing Mistle wafted up to his nose. 

Severus inhaled deeply, savouring the familiar scent. Mixed with citrus, and was that clove? He immediately felt better, his sinuses opened up for the first time in weeks, and his spirit lifted above the fog; everything was clear now. 

When he opened his eyes, Hermione was smiling brightly up at him. 

* * *

This was one of those magical moments that Hermione just knew she would treasure for the rest of her life. Her wrist still sang from his touch, her senses teemed with overwhelming joy. 

The expression on Severus’ face was a revelation when he’d closed his eyes to simply breathe. Colour returned to his pallid features like twilight giving way to the first light of dawn. His mouth softened and those expressive lips parted ever so slightly in what she fancied was relief, if not pleasure. 

She leaned forward in breathless anticipation, waiting for the moment he opened his eyes. 

When he did what she saw made her smile like a loon. It was all she could do not to laugh when he tilted his head to one side, one brow lifted in askance. 

“So, do you like it?” It was as though her mouth had a script of its own, one that she’d yet to edit. To her horror, she rushed onward, perhaps in fear of what he might say if she didn’t fill the silence herself. “I didn’t know that you’d needed the Mistle until last night, and I’ve been spending all of my free time, outside of the Tree Festival and the Transfiguration Club and with Head of House duties.” 

He slowly shook his head, his expression closing down in the force of her onslaught. 

Wiping her sweaty hands on her robes, Hermione continued to talk. “I am glad that it did take this long, because with the new information it was necessary to tweak the formula to deal with your sensitivities, and I hope you don’t mind, but I had help from the House Elves in getting details from your custom work. I think, or well I hope that it might actually be better because so long as you wear that brooch, you won’t have to ingest it.” She’d humiliated herself enough that she decided she’d nothing to lose, so she asked, “Did you really stick that…” 

Cool hands cupped her cheeks, and she watched Severus coming nearer. Perhaps he meant to check to see if she’d been hexed or  _ Confunded _ . 

She stayed quite still, and yet her mouth really did have a mind of its own because she continued her question, “...stuff up your...” 

A slight nod from the dour man was the only outward warning as to his intention, one her brain was slow to process as he leaned in and silenced her with a kiss. 

Severus was careful, his lips delicately brushing against hers, lighter than the breath of a Billiwig’s wing. Her own mouth fell open, gaping in wordless confusion. There was a spark of amusement in his eyes as he withdrew to gauge her reaction.

If he was looking for words, she couldn’t comply because her brain was offline. Scrambled. Shut down for maintenance. 

His fingers felt wonderful within her hair and her nose filled with the scent of Mistle, vaguely herbal, but underneath was a sophisticated musk, redolent with spices. It pulled her upwards, her toes stretching to help her close the distance between them so she could boldly claim a kiss from those fascinating lips. 

As she kissed him, Severus’ swift intake of breath startled her out of that dreamlike state and she jerked backward, with a soft “Oh!” He let her go, his fingers moving to probe his own lips in shock where she’d just enthusiastically kissed him. 

Her heart fluttered erratically in her chest, and her eyes began to sting for she was abruptly certain that she’d overstepped a line. “I’m… I’m so sorry.” She turned away, burying her head in her hands. “I… I should go clean up.” She was gathering her last shreds of dignity about her when a firm hand stopped her. 

“Hermione, wait just a moment.  _ Please _ .” His voice was soft, devoid of the reproach she expected. 

She’d kissed him! What was she thinking to take such liberties? He probably meant to shut her up, not extend an open invitation to ravish his person. Mortified, but feeling that he deserved whatever he required of her, she steeled herself for rejection. 

Those clever fingers trailed down her arm from where he’d gripped her to capture her hand and turned her about to face him fully. With his free hand, he swiped at her cheek, leaving behind a tell-tale dampness for somewhere along the way she’d failed to suppress her tears. 

At last her mind caught up with the evidence before her as he lifted her hand to brush her knuckles lightly with his lips, sending a frisson of arousal washing over her whole body, lighting up bits of herself she’d heretofore thought under cast-iron control. Not so, it seemed. 

Severus murmured, “I have a gift for you as well, but I’d planned to present it to you on Christmas Eve.” His brows crowded together in consternation. “Should I retrieve it now?” 

As he rubbed her hand against his cheek, the pieces of the puzzle began to come together. He wasn’t just trying to shut her up. In fact, he liked her.  _ Like-liked her, _ and he was as skittish as a feral kneazle. 

Determination born of certainty wiped away that last bit of hesitation as she turned her hand so that she might cup his cheek, and marveled at the softness of his freshly shaven skin. “We have plenty of time, Severus. I won’t be going anywhere.” 

These must have been the right words, for Severus let out a breath of relief and pulled her close. To her delight, Hermione was folded into a wool-draped hug, and she tucked perfectly under his chin as though they were meant to fit together. Pressing closer, she looped her own arms about his waist and decided that she was the luckiest of witches.

* * *

* * *


End file.
